


Your Continued Presence is Required

by Page161of180



Series: The Monster Requires [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: And all that entails, Everybody Lives, M/M, Monster POV, The Magicians Season 4 Ending Fix-It, The Monster fixes it, The Monster invades Quentin's space without his consent, The Monster is a monster, but he also gets a full plot arc, but it's a bittersweet ending for The Monster, but like, discussion of depression and suicidal tendencies, more detailed warnings on that one in the notes, so it's not sunshine and rainbows getting there, the ultimately redemptive power of learning to love someone more than yourself, violent imagery and body horror (because Monster POV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 07:13:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18806290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Page161of180/pseuds/Page161of180
Summary: Frustrating Quentin. Stupid Quentin. He wasn’t playing the game right. Maybe Quentin was the broken thing. And not like during the Brian game, when all he’d had to do was think snap at an elbow and then Quentin/Not Quentin would break, but only a little, and then look again when the breaking stopped. Like Quentin now was a broken-all-the-way thing. And he wasn’t going back together right.Oh.Oh.The Body--It didn’t like it when he thought that. It made its stomach clench.In the constant struggle for Quentin's attention, the Monster learns that there would be something even worse to lose.(Or: The Monster, God help me, fixes it.)





	Your Continued Presence is Required

**Author's Note:**

> This story directly follows from a previous story I wrote, called Your Urgent Attention is Required. That story is set sometime shortly after 4x06 and tries to supply a motive and a context to The Monster's increasing tendency throughout season 4 (up until the last two episodes where, you know, just about every plot arc sort of disappears) to interact with Quentin in ways that read as intimate. If you don't feel like reading that one first, the salient points you'll need to understand this story are that The Monster has access to Eliot's memories, knows Quentin and Eliot's history, and is trying to use that knowledge to his advantage.
> 
> This story is, as it says on the tin, about The Monster 'fixing it'-- and this story, I promise you, does not end like 4x13 did. That said, The Monster is a monster; he remains as such, even as, in the course of this story, he comes to care for Quentin in a way that is more selfless than what we saw in canon (still doesn't much care about anyone else, really). My goal here isn't to redeem The Monster or to try to suggest that the fact that he stops emotionally (and sometimes physically) torturing Quentin makes him a hero. What I wanted to do was to give him a full plot arc, rather than the approximately 55% of one that he got in season 4, because he was a compelling character and damn it, Hale Appleman played him so, so well. And, because I am who I am, the plot arc I decided to give him is about learning that loving someone (or, if you're a monster and the full expression might be a bit beyond you, then *trying* to love someone) doesn't mean wanting them near you no matter what, it means prioritizing their well-being.
> 
> Three warnings that follow from the above that I think are important here:
> 
> (1) Depression and mental health: A lot of this story is about outside perspectives (specifically, The Monster, and through his memories, Eliot) on Quentin's depression. As such, there is discussion of behaviors linked to depression. There are also veiled but fairly obvious references to both outsiders' worries that Quentin may be suicidal. I also want to point out that both The Monster and Eliot try to be allies to Quentin, but neither of them is perfect at it-- certainly not The Monster, but also not Eliot. They both have their own worries and baggage and not knowing what to do that they bring to the table, along with their desire to help. Use your judgment and be kind to yourself on whether that's something you think you want to be reading about right now; and as always, please let me know if you think anything in that discussion feels wrong to you. 
> 
> (2) Non-consensual touching: As in the first story (and as in the show), the Monster touches Quentin without his consent, including in ways that read as intimate/romantic. In general, what is shown is not different in kind than what we saw in canon (i.e., close-talking and over-the-clothes, above-the-waist touching), but there are several occasions that The Monster spoons Quentin without consent, including once while Quentin is asleep, and a couple of references to the fact that The Body's interest in Quentin is sexual, even though The Monster doesn't entirely seem to understand what that means. Also, please be aware that this story is more explicit about what I read as subtext in the show: that the more depressed and withdrawn Quentin becomes, the less likely he is to tell The Monster to leave him alone. This story tries to make exceedingly clear that that is, very much and emphatically, NOT THE SAME THING as consenting.
> 
> (3) Violent/horror imagery: This story is narrated by The Monster. As such, you should expect unpleasant imagery including violence to people/animals and some body horror. I think it's of a piece with what we saw from The Monster in the show, but you know your own sensitivities.
> 
> With all that said, this whole thing really is about the redemptive power of learning to love, and I promise you-- our guys live. (In what I write, they will always live.) Quentin, in particular, is in a bad place for most of this story, and he's not in a perfect place when it ends, but he's fighting-- for Eliot, yes, but for himself, too. That's something that I personally wanted to see.

 

It was supposed to be _better_ , he thought as he licked The Body’s tongue over the tangy metal foil that used to cover the yogurt cup (yogurt-- better for The Body than pudding, Julia said, and more fun to _stir_ ), when Quentin _stopped breaking things_.

 

The breaking things was part of the _plan_ . He had _explained_ that to Quentin, and to Julia, but Quentin was so stubborn sometimes. The things would break and then Quentin would stop being sad and _then_ he would stop breaking things and he would pay _attention_ again, and that was the important part. That was how it should go.

 

Quentin hadn’t broken things in _forever_ , though. Not after he peeled The Body’s arms from around his waist, or untwisted The Body’s fingers from his hair, or even after he said _no_ , so quietly, when The Body’s mouth had breathed on the bumpy parts of his ear and said _pretty Q_ like in the memories where Worthless Eliot wanted to get the thing he called _laid_.

 

But Quentin hadn’t done the part where he stopped being _sad_ , first. And so now he wasn’t _looking_.

 

Frustrating Quentin. _Stupid_ Quentin. He wasn’t playing the game _right_ . Maybe _Quentin_ was the broken thing. And not like during the Brian game, when all he’d had to do was think _snap_ at an elbow and then Quentin/Not Quentin would break, but only a little, and then _look_ again when the breaking stopped. Like Quentin _now_ was a broken-all-the-way thing. And he wasn’t going back together right.

 

Oh.

 

_Oh_.

 

The Body--

 

It didn’t like it when he thought that. It made its stomach clench.

 

It made the yogurt taste bad, too. But that was just because of The Body’s mouth, souring, and The Body’s throat, closing, and The Body’s gut, gurgling. It didn’t matter to _him_ , Quentin breaking. Quentin _broken_ . It only mattered that Quentin paid _attention_.

 

“ _Q_?” he tried again.

 

The Body’s mouth liked to say it, that way. He liked it, too. The _oo_ . He had also liked the way that it would make Quentin’s-- _Q_ ’s-- eye go _twitch_ , just at the corner. It meant he was about to look again.

 

The eye didn’t go _twitch_ now, though. It didn’t do anything. It certainly didn’t _look_.

 

He reached forward and pushed the little pricky parts of his fork onto Quentin’s sleeve. Julia said that _spoons_ went with yogurt, but the fork was scratchy and tasted better. He could spear the little blobby bits that floated in the yogurt’s smooth parts. One of them fell off the pricky part and landed _plop_ on Quentin.

 

Quentin _looked_ \-- but down, ugh. At the sleeve. The little peachy blob alone on the blackness.

 

He could lick it, maybe. The Body wanted that, sometimes, but only when it was on Quentin’s _skin_. Shirts tasted fuzzy and made The Body’s tongue dry.

 

Quentin’s _skin_ made The Body’s tongue not-dry.

 

He decided to flip-- ugh, _again_ , all the time now, and _careful_ , too, to find the things he needed for this game, for this _plan_ \-- through Worthless Eliot’s memories, for something that would work. There was something-- there was _always_ something. This one didn’t have Quentin, but it had the small person that looked like Quentin and a too-long sleeve dragging through something that looked sweet and golden and good.

 

He took The Body’s thumb and licked the tip of it, like Worthless Eliot had done to the same thumb, and rubbed it against the sleeve and the yogurt. When he was done there was a shiny circle on the sleeve, like an eyeball leaves when it is still fresh and wet. The Body’s thumb was sticky and goopy and there were little black fuzzies staining the yogurt and the fruit. He took the thumb and dragged it down the sleeve of the sweater he had put on The Body last week. It stayed there, the blobby fruit and Quentin’s shirt’s fuzzies and The Body’s spit.

 

Quentin looked at it.

 

“ _Q_!” He reached out and put both of The Body’s hands around one of Quentin’s, but it made Quentin look away.

 

“I asked you not to--” he started to say, but he stopped. “Nevermind.” A sigh. “What is it now?”

 

Quentin’s hand was bigger than the rest of Quentin, but it was still so easy to break. He could _crush_ , the bones all powder, or he could _scrape_ , the skin in little ribbons on the table. He could put it in The Body’s mouth and tear and rip or he could put it _against_ The Body’s mouth and kiss and kiss and kiss and Quentin would _look_ and also he would _care_ , whatever that meant, that thing The Body needed until it made _him_ want to cry, too.

 

But first Quentin had to _break_ things again. That was how it _went_.

 

He made The Body fall forward against the table, but he let go of Quentin’s hand and put The Body’s face on the stain on Quentin’s sleeve, instead, rubbing The Body’s cheek on the slippy fabric because he knew that _Quentin_ was underneath.

 

Quentin _pulled_ and the slippy fabric and the arm beneath went away. He waited patiently, because this was the part where Quentin would _look_. And he did, but only for a moment, and then he was looking not really at anything again.

 

“Listen, it’s getting late. Sort of.”

 

The sun was out, outside the window.

 

“I need to-- I’m just going to sleep now, okay?”

 

That made The Body-- not happy. But he nodded. Because _sleep_ \-- _sleep_ meant Quentin would go to the little room and close the door and make things break and maybe cry and he’d be thinking about _him_ the whole time. How it used to be.

 

But when Quentin went into the little room and closed the door, there was-- _nothing_ . No breaking. No choking-sniffing- _not_ crying. Just the springs inside the bed saying _squeak_ and then quiet.

 

He let The Body walk to where Quentin disappeared and let its hand come up to the door, and then its ear, so it could hear the _nothing_ more.

 

Inside the room, Quentin sighed, but he didn’t say _just sit somewhere else for a little bit, okay,_ like he used to when The Body leaned all the way against the door.

 

He _might_ say it, though. Or he might get up.

 

But-- Quentin didn’t. Not after that, either. Not even after the sun went down and then came back up, and after going to Starbucks again and then coming back again.

 

He--

 

_The Body_ \--

 

The Body didn’t _like_ it. The skin on its face kept folding, folding, as it sat on the floor outside the quiet room and traced patterns into the part of the whipped cream that had gotten pink and bloody.

 

He licked the finger with the whipped cream, then put the finger on the old, dry yogurt stain on his sleeve.

 

The Body’s heart was booming too fast, the way Quentin hated. But he hadn’t even gotten the Starbucks with the caffeine, because Julia said. Just with the sprinkles and the sugar. There hadn’t been any white powder today and it had been _so long_ since the little needle filled with the something else. It was just because Quentin wasn’t following the _plan_ , he told The Body, thinking _calm_ . It was a good plan, the one that went _breaking_ then _looking_ then _shut up, dumbass, oh baby, just get over here_. And Quentin was-- was messing it up.

 

_That_ was why The Body felt like it couldn’t breathe, sitting here while Quentin was alone in the little room, in the light then the dark then the light again, being _nothing_. There was no other reason.

 

 

X

 

 

He wondered, just a little, sometimes, whether _he_ was doing it wrong, and that was why it wasn’t working, even though that was stupid, because anything that Worthless Eliot could do, he could do, _much_ better.

 

Quentin was playing the sleep game, again-- on the couch this time, nose almost touching the back cushion. His eyes were open. His shoes were on.

 

He was bad at this game, too.

 

The couch was very big and black and _leather_ . It was soft, _leather_ , but it stuck against The Body’s cheek, when he made The Body’s cheek nestle against it and slide, like the _leather_ didn’t want the cheek to go. He liked-- _oh_ , he liked the leather. He’d told Quentin once, after the park but before he saw in the memories about _Mmike_ and made the plan, how The Body _liked_ it. And Quentin had cleared his throat and said _yeah, that scans_ \-- and had-- almost-- smiled.

 

The Body’s arm went tighter around Quentin’s middle.

 

The first time they played _this_ game, not on the couch but in the little room, it was _after_ the plan and no more smiles. Quentin had been-- _angry_ . He had been better at the sleep game, then. He had snuggled back just like in the memories and _sighed_ and it was like he was looking, even though his eyes were closed. And then when The Body had gone warm all over and squeezed so tight and Quentin’s eyes had opened, he had _stared_ and yelled and broken all the things. _You can’t just fucking_ , he had said, and his eyes had never gone anywhere.

 

Quentin now was stiff and quiet.

 

He pushed The Body’s forehead against the soft warm of Quentin’s sweater. He slid one of The Body’s bare feet against the grimy, rubbery bottoms of Quentin’s still-on shoes.

 

Quentin breathed out, but it didn’t move his shoulders.

 

The first time, Quentin had yelled, _you’re not him-- you’re never going to-- so just_ , and then left, which was-- _disappointing_ . But when Quentin had come back after drinking all the whiskey-- which wasn’t _fair_ and was against the _rules_ \-- it had been okay, still, and _better_ , because he had looked even _harder_ and even when his eyes were closed tight he was looking still when he said, all wobbly and louder than he thought he was being, _please just let me_ have _him_.

 

Quentin now didn’t say anything.

 

The Body’s chest went _tight_ again, the heart-too-racing way, even though he had been so good, today. _Shut up, body_ , he thought, and made the hand go flat and pet the soft sweater and its clicky buttons.

 

“Quentin.”

 

Nothing.

 

He put The Body's mouth on Quentin’s hair, tasted coconuts and soap. “ _Quentin_.”

 

Nothing.

 

“ _Q_ ,” he said. And, “ _baaeee-by_.”

 

Nothing.

 

He pushed backwards with the Body and threw it against the cushion and crossed its arms over its chest and stared at the ceiling and growled because The Body’s eyes were hot again and stinging again, all its breathing parts were closing again, and he didn’t know _why_.

 

He could-- there was always _something_ in the memories, _ugh_ . He knew. _Worthless_ Eliot and his not-worthless memories. There was always something that would help. In the ones The Body liked, from the other, very boring place with no Starbucks and no people to yell at in the television even though they couldn’t hear. Or in the ones that made The Body sad, when Quentin had the longest hair and his mouth made funny lines but he still looked and looked and never looked away even though he pretended to.

 

He didn’t _need_ them, though. Didn’t _need_ \-- _El_ , what Quentin had sighed, the first time they played this game, when his shoulders let go and his eyes were closed. Didn’t need-- _him_ , the one that Quentin had asked for back, polite and quiet after the Brian game and sad and yelling after the whiskey. He didn’t need anything. Just one more stone and then and then. And--

 

_Quentin_.

 

The Body’s neck twisted to the side and there were Quentin’s shoulders, tight and tight. The hand touched them and nothing. The Body’s lungs screamed, then, and its chest bucked and the memories dislodged and suddenly they were _there_ without having to look for them.

 

_The boring place. The Body knowing it is 25 and curled up the same way as just now, earlier._ I’m here, Q. If you-- or, just. You’re not _alone_ , here--

 

And,

 

_The boring place again. The Body, 36 and talking quietly while something past its shoulder banged cup against table._ Quentin, baby, you need to eat something, okay? Just a little. Teddy is--

 

And

 

_The Body, 41, and the bowl on the table._ Rise and shine, Coldwater. You’re gonna eat it, and then we’re going for a walk. No more naps today. And _don’t_ look at me like that, they’re your fucking rules--

 

And,

 

_The Body, 68 and surly._ And I’m going to _keep_ checking in, you stubborn old bastard, until we’re both--

 

And then, again,

 

_The Body 25, a few days after the curled-up memory, watching,_ worried _, and Quentin sitting up at a table, finally, and picking at the bowl, finally, which was less chipped then._ (This wasn’t-- I get that it wasn’t fun for you, but--) I swear to _God_ , Quentin, if you try to tell me you’re sorry-- ( _No_ , I-- I just meant-- I get why you were worried, but you don’t have to-- this wasn’t-- I would _tell_ you. If it-- if it gets like that--) _The Body’s mouth shaking and then its shoulders shaking and its chest still so tight._ Do you promise?

 

The Body levered off the cushion and gasped and gasped and gasped.

 

 

X

 

 

The plan-- the plan didn’t _change_ after that. Quentin was still supposed to _look_.

 

It was just-- _The Body_ that was-- jittery. And _tight._ And pinched, always, at its temples. It was The Body that was-- _distressed_ . At Quentin, sleeping too much. Quentin, not eating. Quentin not yelling, not _breaking things_.

 

It didn’t matter to _him_ , at all. Whether Quentin was happy. Or.

 

It only mattered if Quentin _looked_.

 

It was just that-- _shut_ up, _body_ , _shut up_ \--

 

It was just that Quentin couldn’t _look_ , if. If--

 

The Body gagged then, even though there was only Red Bull in its mouth, and the juice box from the refrigerator.

 

Quentin had to-- be here, so that he could pay _attention_ . He _had_ to. Just until the last stone, and then-- _something_ . _That_ was why it mattered. There were no other reasons.

 

So, the _plan_.

 

The _plan_.

 

 

And. Also:

 

 

“What-- um. What is this?”

 

“Your _quesadilla_ .” The Body liked to say it with a _jh_ sound on the _ll_. “It was in the trash.”

 

“Because it-- fell on the floor?”

 

Quentin looked, then, at the quesadilla, cold and burned and speckley, sitting like a gift in The Body’s long hands. Not _looking_ , not quite. But. Not looking anywhere else, either.

 

“You need to eat,” he said to Quentin. That was in the memories, with a baby on one hip and a hand stirring _watery_ and _boring_ without any _Red Number 40._

 

He liked _Red Number 40_.

 

“ _Q_ ,” he said, too, because that was the word that made Q’s mouth open, sometimes, in the memories.

 

But.

 

Quentin.

 

Quentin looked down at his lap again.

 

_Pay attention to me, Quentin!_ He thought. But in The Body’s head it sounded like, _please, please baby eat something_.

 

Tight, again. The _worthless_ breathing parts.

 

He let The Body’s mouth tear a bite out of the _quesadilla_ himself, then. It was cold and flat and The Body’s tongue caught coffee grounds that someone ( _Percy_ ) poured into the trash can on top of it. He tore a second bite and _popped_ somewhere else. Tijuana. There was a liquor store and he picked tequila. He sat in the alley after, and there were cats. He didn’t think of Quentin, who wouldn’t look, and wouldn’t _eat_ , and was always _stubborn_ and _frustrating_ and _wouldn’t let him_ \--

 

If he thought of Quentin, he would have pulled the tail off the cat-- the bone-skinny, dirty-fur one, that nuzzled at the warm blood staining the octopus on The Body’s shirt. He didn’t, though. He cuddled it against the octopus, instead.

 

 

Also:

 

 

The spoon-- he used the spoon for cereal, even though it curved and tasted wrong, because the milk went through the picky parts of the fork and that was _wrong_ because the milk was sweet and stained pink from the marshmallows-- pushed once, twice, at Quentin’s mouth.

 

“What are you-- what is--”

 

The milk-- _the milk_ \-- spilled and dribbled onto Quentin’s chin, sweet and pink.

 

He could--

 

The Body could. It could--

 

There were memories like that, too. Worthless Eliot. The Body’s fingers strong on Quentin’s face, turning this way and that way and _dragging_ with the tongue. Sometimes because there was stew at the corner, sometimes because there was wine. Sometimes nothing. Just-- The Body and the feeling, sometimes, like he needed-- it needed-- to _rub_. And Quentin.

 

He made The Body scrape the spoon over Quentin’s chin and catch the milk. Quentin needed to _eat._

 

He pushed the spoon in again and Quentin’s mouth opened, this time. His other hand-- the other hand. It squeezed at Quentin’s shoulder. He did it again, harder.

 

The shoulder stayed tight and didn’t move.

 

“Quentin,” he said. The voice sounded-- it sounded. “ _Q_. You need to chew.”

 

 

Also:

 

 

They were getting close, so close, about the stones and about the things he didn’t know because the gods stole them from him. The psychic hadn’t been helpful enough, had gone _sizzle_ but there was someone else to help now-- _Percy_. He just needed to get rid of the body first, and then, and then.

 

But even then.

 

First.

 

Quentin.

 

Because the memories. He had been looking more and more at the memories, Worthless Eliot’s. To know how to keep Quentin-- keep Quentin paying _attention_.

 

“Quentin,” he said again. And, “ _Q_.”

 

The Body’s hands swept again and again over the bones in Quentin’s collar. Over the shirt onto the skin. Quentin’s shoulders stayed tight and his hands stayed up, in the air. He didn’t move away.

 

He _used_ to move away, and yell, and _break things_ . It should be-- _good_ . There was a _plan_.

 

But.

 

The Body’s chest _hurt_.

 

“ _Quentin_ ,” he repeated. The Body’s chest hurt less and also more when he said, also, “you cannot come with me.”

 

They would need to-- _he_ would need to. Put the body of the psychic into the water and make it sink. And the memories said that there were kinds of pictures that Quentin shouldn’t see.

 

“You _stay here_ ,” he repeated, the way that one of the other people that was here sometimes, with the hair that was big and dark, said to the little dog. “You shouldn’t see it go under the water. The body.”

 

Quentin rolled his eyes. “You fried his brain in front of me.”

 

The Body’s head nodded, the hands smoothed down again-- more skin that time, less shirt. “I will try to kill them in front of you less.”

 

“ _Jesus_ ,” Quentin whispered, but it wasn’t like he used to say it, with his shoulders and his eyes and _angry_ . That was _right_ . Why couldn’t it be _right_ ? The plan was _working_. Quentin had broken things, and then he stopped, and he spoke now, quietly, and he looked, sometimes, and he didn’t pull away.

 

But.

 

The Body--

 

Or, the memories--

 

Or, worthless, worthless, _Worthless_ Eliot.

 

_They_ all said _withdrawing_ and _lack of interest_ and _so get fucking angry, baby, just don’t shut down on me_.

 

He moved The Body’s hands away from Quentin and went to where he had set the psychic down on the counter. The Body wanted to see Quentin again, that he was there and-- _there_ . So, he let The Body turn, just part of the way, before he _popped_ the psychic to the dock.

 

And he saw it, then. Between when he thought _pop_ and when the apartment went away and the dock was there. Quentin saw that _he_ was leaving, and--

 

His shoulders.

 

Let go.

 

 

( _After_ . That night, after _Percy_ and the memories and everything so close and in flashes and _why did they take this_ ? _When will he understand_ ? He crawled in beside Quentin while Quentin, _awful_ Quentin, _never leave me_ Quentin, was bad at the sleeping game some more.

 

The Body’s memories were there, again, swirling around his new, old ones. More and more, and he didn’t know how to untangle them or put them away. _The Body-- or, Eliot-- curled like this, and Quentin. The words into Quentin’s shoulders, quiet in their_ home _._ If you need-- fuck the mosaic, okay? Fuck this quest. We can go, or. You can go, and I’ll-- I don’t-- I don’t know how to talk about this, okay? I’m just trying to tell you--  you should-- you should be as _okay_ as you can be. Wherever that is.

 

The memory stopped then, and he thought, as hard as he could, _why don’t you look, Quentin_ ? But when he opened The Body’s mouth, he made it say _why don’t you break things, Q? Why don’t you push me away_?)

 

 

X

 

 

He remembered, after that. And got the last stone. And got Sister. Which was good. Good because Sister. But also good because Sister meant _Quentin_ didn’t matter anymore.

 

_You had one friend_ , he told himself seriously. _And now you have Sister_ . _Everything is the same_.

 

But everything was _not_ the same, he thought, as he worried the green straw between The Body’s teeth. There was nothing left in the cup; he had used The Body’s tongue to lick the plastic of its insides, but there was still, in the straw, if he chewed it just right.

 

It was probably because Sister was-- her body was not strong enough. She could only speak now and then. She didn’t like to _look_. Either.

 

The straw split down side, as he ground The Body’s teeth.

 

He had an idea, for fixing Sister. A different body. It would mean back to the apartment. Back to _Quentin_.

 

Quentin, who had tried to _keep_ the final stone from him, to let Enyalius _get away_. After they had worked so hard, during the Brian game, to find Enyalius. After he had-- given Quentin the quesadilla and the yogurt and poked Quentin when Quentin slept too much and stopped killing the people in front of Quentin.

 

Quentin, who had _never_ been his friend.

 

Quentin, who--

 

Quentin, who had only _cared_ about _The Body,_ and who he didn’t need now, and who could be broken-all-the-way and it wouldn’t matter at _all_ now. Quentin could--

 

The Body choked and spit the shredded pieces of the straw on the ground. They hurt as they caught the edges of its mouth.

 

He brought the back of The Body’s hand to wipe the blood coming from its nose. He sniffed in again and let more of the powder burn. Quentin had said no powder. But Quentin didn’t matter now. He would do whatever he wanted to The Worthless Body and to Worthless Eliot. He would take Worthless Julia, too. He would reach into Quentin and take all of his Worthless Memories, and when Quentin asked why and who was he and what had happened and wasn’t it terrible, he would say no tequila and no powder and no cigarettes and no, I won’t hold you, Quentin, like in the little cabin in the boring world where you smiled when the little boy tracked in mud, because you only want The Body and not even that if it is me inside.

 

He was standing then in the apartment, even though he didn’t remember thinking _pop_ this time. He would _squeeze_ their necks until they had no more heads, Percy, and the dark-haired one, and the doggie, and the glasses one, if she was there-- the one that Worthless Eliot was more afraid of than anyone. All of them except for Julia, and he would make Quentin watch.

 

_There are some pictures Quentin shouldn’t see_ , he thought, but then he shook The Body’s head-- _his_ head. He shook _his_ head, and stepped toward the hallway and the little room--

 

But then.

 

_Quentin._

 

Quentin sitting on the spiral steps ( _you have to tie your shoes on them, okay? You could fall and hurt his-- you could get hurt_ ), with empty eyes and an empty glass.

 

He could do it right now. Quentin deserved his retribution. Just like Enyalius did. He _helped_ Enyalius. He--

 

_Break my bones. Yeah, and choke me. I’m too tired to care anymore_.

 

The Body’s knees stumbled and Quentin looked.

 

_You are weak_ , he thought. _And I am strong_.

 

_You are_ \--

 

_Quentin_ , wrapping weak little arms around The Body so tight, shoulders shaking, ribs laughing, when it said _squeeze my ass, just a little_.

 

_Quentin_ , shoulder soft and voice soft, saying _no, totally, they owe you_ \--

 

_Quentin_ , who The Ora said would stay and play card tricks. Who would have, too. Except for Worthless Eliot, because Eliot and The Body and the _gun_. Because they--

 

Because it hurt The Body too much, to think Quentin could be gone.

 

Because it hurt _this_ body too much, to think Quentin could be gone.

 

Quentin’s shoulders were so tight, sitting on the steps, like he never let them go, anymore.

 

“Did you eat today?”

 

The Body asked it, but it was _his_ body. So. _He_ asked it.

 

Quentin didn’t answer.

 

He walked to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator door. The yogurt was there, still. He reached for the peach kind and--

 

Put it back.

 

He reached for _mixed berry_.

 

There was a fork in the sink and he pulled the sweater over his hand and rubbed it against the picky parts. Walked back out.

 

“You need to eat something,” he said. “Q-- _Quentin_.”

 

Quentin just looked at him. He looked, and it wasn’t-- it wasn’t enough.

 

He touched the flappy edge of the foil cover. He could pull it off. He could spear the blobby bits on the picky parts and open Quentin’s mouth and put them in. But--

 

“It is-- I think you have to choose it.”

 

Quentin closed his eyes and leaned harder against the railing. His forehead looked like it _hurt_.

 

“And why would I do that?”

 

“Because,” he said. “ _They’re your fucking rules._ ” Swallowed. “Also. You should. Go to bed. Soon. And get up before 10. You should-- _choose_ that. Too.”

 

Quentin’s eyes opened again. He wanted to put his hand, just there, with the fingers soft and stroking near the corner. Like he was--

 

Like he was Eliot.

 

Quentin blinked, confused. “Are these-- are you seriously trying to do _check-ins_? Is that why you’ve been-- with all the food, and--”

 

He nodded and Quentin’s eyes narrowed.

 

“ _Jesus_ .” It was a little louder, a little angry. And then, “why-- why do you _care_?”

 

_Because you are Quentin_ , he thought, _and I am Eliot’s Body. And it would hurt us all too much, for you to be gone._

 

“I just do,” he said, instead.

 

“ _Bullshit_ .” Quentin spit the word out. “You don’t get to-- Seriously, _fuck_ this. All these months, you tortured me. You-- you _told me he was dead_ . You-- the fucking _tequila_ and the pills and _my arm_ and watching you kill people, _helping_ you kill people--”

 

Quentin’s words went louder and louder. He held out the yogurt, then, like it was a little plane, and Quentin only looked at it for a moment, before he grabbed it and threw it and _growled_.

 

It _broke_ , with a splatter, on the far wall, the little blobs going everywhere.

 

“I don’t _deserve_ this shit,” Quentin yelled, and he-- The Body-- the _monster_ nodded faster and faster.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Quentin said, quieter then. And then louder, “ _fuck_.”

 

“It’s okay,” the monster said. “Quentin. The-- it’s good. The breaking things. You--”

 

“Should break them on purpose, I know. You said.” Quentin grimaced. “Found out today I’m supposed to be mending them, actually.”

 

The monster considered Quentin’s hands. Quentin, he-- he hated him. The monster. But he’d never tried to _hurt_ him. No one ever approached the monster and tried to not hurt him before. Eliot, either. No wonder they--

 

No wonder.

 

“You can do both things,” the monster finally said. There wasn’t a specific memory. But. But he thought. _Eliot_ . He might say that, with the baby on one hip and the gun in his hand. Always to protect Quentin, all of it. “You,” he swallowed. “You fix things. You . . . _care_ about them. But you get to break them, too. You can _get fucking mad_ . _Just don’t shut down on me, baby._ ”

 

Quentin stared for a long time then exhaled. “You really do see all his memories, don’t you.”

 

It wasn’t a question, but the monster nodded anyway. The blobs of yogurt were crawling down the wall, falling in the carpet. “He misses you. All the time.”

 

Quentin’s breath hitched and his eyes went shiny. Not tears, though. Just wet. “Yeah. Well. I miss him, too.”

 

_Ask me, Quentin_ , he thought. Polite and quiet. Or sad and yelling.

 

But Quentin didn’t-- didn’t ask, always. For what he needed. When he-- That was what _Eliot_ was for.

 

The monster imagined then. The baby on one hip. The gun in his hand. “What if--” he said. Stopped. Licked his lips and thought of the yogurt and the way he had wanted to taste it, on Quentin’s sleeve. Because it was _Quentin_. And thought also of the way The Body’s-- his _chest_ , would still be so tight and not-breathing, even if he did. Because it was _Quentin_. “What if I gave him back?”

 

 

X

 

 

It wasn’t as easy as that. There was Sister and the person Everett and Quentin said they couldn’t just _stay_ in this realm or go back to the castle. People would always be looking and using, and if they didn’t, he and Sister would just kill people anyway.

 

He had agreed. It was true.

 

The glasses-person, _Alice_ , also agreed, and told them about the mirror realm and the book-man’s _seam_ . An empty place. Just him and Sister and nothing else. Maybe with nothing else, she would-- it could just be them, _together_ , again.

 

“It won’t be any different,” he said to Quentin, who looked queasy. “I had one friend. Now I have one Sister. Nothing has changed.”

 

It was a lie. But. Sometimes you lied. For Quentin. When you were Eliot. Or his body.

 

The words were right there on his tongue, though. On their tongue. _I’ll do it, but only if you come with us, Quentin_.

 

And Quentin---

 

Quentin, who thought he had to mend for everyone else and forgot sometimes that it was important to yell and break things, too.

 

Quentin, who still was barely eating and hadn’t been to the thing called therapy in years.

 

Quentin, at the castle, with his card tricks, who would have stayed when he should have broken things and pulled away and run.

 

Quentin  _would_.

 

So the monster opened their mouth and said, _I’ll do it, Quentin. I will do it. But only-- but. Could you. Take me one place first. Please_.

 

 

X

 

 

The line wasn’t long, even though Quentin told him no killing the people ahead of them, even the _mobile orders_ , and he didn’t. It was cold and sweet and good, like always, this last one. Caramel this time, and not vanilla. It turned gray when they walked through the mirror, like everything else, but it still tasted good. He held it in one hand and sipped as he threw the jar with Sister in first. The person Everett came then and tried to interrupt, but he only had to think _dead_ and then he dropped, and it was just the monster and Quentin, the way it should always be.

 

The way that it-- _shouldn’t_ be. Probably.

 

He held out their hand, then, the one not holding the cup, for Quentin and the ax to cut it, like the man and the knife in the memory. He liked that memory, and the one that came after it. Quentin, and the crown, and Quentin’s eyes.

 

He liked all the memories. With Quentin.

 

He _felt_ it-- leaving The Body, then. It was-- he tried to bring the straw to his mouth, one more time but it wasn’t his hand now. And it wasn’t his mouth, soon. And he thought, he _wanted_ , once more, before The Body’s mouth wasn’t his mouth, to change his mind and yell it, _Quentin, Quentin, come with me and don’t leave_ \--

 

But--

 

_No_.

 

That wasn’t--

 

There was a _plan_.

 

There had always been a plan.

 

He left the body then, _snap_ , like the threads on the cuffs of the sweater when he pulled on them. He left, but it was okay, because he would go with Sister, and because there was a _plan_ , and the plan wasn’t for him, the plan was for--

 

_Quentin_.

 

The plan was always  _Quentin_.

 

It was a good plan now, a _better_ plan:

 

The breaking things.

 

(The cup, splattered, no name, on the floor.)

 

And _Quentin_. Not sad anymore.

 

(Quentin, less sad. Quentin, sad but saying _I don’t deserve this bullshit_.)

 

And then--

 

(Quentin’s shoulders letting go, and not flinching back but reaching, before The Body hit the ground, and cradling, and warm hands, _El, El, oh you dumbass, Jesus, I’m so fucking mad at-- baby, oh baby, your eyes, it’s really--_ and _Q, Q, Q, oh, are you--_ )

 

\--and then, _finally_ , the _looking_.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading.


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